Cupid should have used a damn gun on these guys.

"Love is being stupid together."
- Paul Valery

Hello Flysters. Me again, still loitering lazily about in Dear Prudence territory, evidently too committed to this stuff to leave. Ah, so. Life goes on.

And here comes Valentine's day – my favorite made up holiday. I like valentines day for the chocolate best, but sometimes I get some, and that's not bad either.

Off to Prudieland, where the idiots are cultivated like turnips, which isn't a terrible allegory when I think about it. I have searched for another source of idiocy, but I cannot find quite the stupidly vapid pukefest one can get from Thursdays at Slate. They have a knack, I think.

Letters can be found here.

And so it begins.

***

Dear Puzzled – You are not puzzled, my friend. Nor baffled, nor bewildered, nor perplexed. You are just plain stupid. Lemme start over now.

Dear Stupid – man, are you stupid. Recap: you and your “female friend” want to grind out a sweaty wet sticky one, but she's married. To an Alzheimer's patient. Who knows no better, and never will, ever. Ever.

You want to know if this is okay.

Stoo. Pid.

Now, from your letter I can assume you two are not in your twenties (so there's no wild visual for me, which sucks) so you know the drill: life happens. Alzheimer's happens. Death happens. Meanwhile, what the hell is wrong with you, nitwit? Helllooo? Anyone hoooooome?

Assuming you can achieve a viable and useful erection, go achieve one and use it, goddammit! Missionary!!! Doggie style!!! Sixty-nine, it's divine!!! Once, twice, three times a day, motherfucker!!! Oral, anal, role playing, bondage, Wesson oil, S&M, outdoors, back seat, on the goddamn stairs. Go go go!!! Slam the and slalom that stiff slick slippery spicy salami into her receptive girly parts as hard and as often as your system can continue to tolerate it, then do it some more!!! Then...do it more!

Did you really need someone to tell you that?

Now: feel guilty? Well...uh...er...I dunno. I might if I were you. I mean, he's not dead (he's pining for the fjords!), and she's duty bound to take care of him, and that's not a big warm-fuzzy-maker in my book. “Can't go down on you right now, hon. I have to go wipe Bob's ass or he gets a bad rash. Back in a jiff.” She loves him too, you know. This is complicated and there's a serious need for reflection and respect in the situation. And you didn't mention kids – you have to consider the fallout from that very, very carefully, if any are about.

If they find a cure for Alzheimer's you've got a hell of a story to tell too, dude. Ew.

But meanwhile, stick that thang a yours into that thang a hers and do the wild thango-tango!

Oh, and you're still stupid, but you'll be stupid with a big fat stupid smile on your stupid face, for certain.

***

Dear Secret Admirer – A very famous person once said “dude, you may be stupid, but you sure are creepy.” I don't know if that was it exactly. Maybe I said that. Wait. Yes, I did!

I mean it. Seriously? Are you old enough to get a fucking erection, much less have a neato coolio crush on little Buffy McSlickinside? You really have to ask this question?

Recap: You have then hots for a girl and are seriously, completely, unequivocally a total fucking chicken shit and can't approach her and say “uh, so...hi” and you ask PRUDIE what to do about it? Bonus: you've got stalking in the works, under the guise of the old “Secret Admirer (Who Owns An Ax and Duct Tape and Hefty Bags and Rope and Shit) Ploy”

Dood – I have friends here at The Fly. They are tired of my schtick. They hear this crap from me all...the...time...

But I can't...help...myself...

Schuyler The Cat welcomes you to Testicles-R-Us, the complete balls superstore! We've got 'em all - we have big balls, small feisty balls, low-swingin' experienced balls: you need balls, we got BALLS!

Today's special: The latest “Guy Who's Not Scared Of Girls” model. These balls are a medium size for dependable performance and good reaction time, coupled with with higher youthful density, resulting in controlled by fast release and 150% increase in testosterone which can make a blubbering little hairless Nancy-boy like you able to actually talk to a real living girl as if you weren't the frequently masturbating cheese dick chicken shit of the worst wimpy sort that you actually are.

Unfortunately for you, the alternative is waiting about 20 years until you cease to have little boy balls and are able to look a woman in the eye and ask her a simple question, such as “would you like to have dinner sometime?” without wetting your fucking training pants like a goddamn punk-ass.

My advice? Until you grow the hell up, leave her the fuck alone, stalker. Jeez.

***

Googling Daughter – well my goodness, a Sherlock-lette with HSD! You did the science and the investigation and now you got the goods on a very, very bad man, yes you do! Recap: Mom's friend is engaged to a guy who might not be what he says he is, 'cause you can't find him on Google. You think you know what he is. Danger, Will Robinson.

Uh, ok. Here's the doo doo. One question. only one question: are you sure, Sherlock?

Reeeeally? Irrefutable proof? Red-handed evidence discovery? Okay then. Off you go! Do the throwawy email account and nail him. Then hope you are right. Hope he doesn't find you later, too. Have fun! Other than that, this little letter was so fucking boring and droll I can't believe I finished it. Nighty night. Fade to black.

***

Toning It Down – This is another misnomer. You are not toning it down. You are just plain fucked up. Recap: You and boy hipster-fuck whatever walks by that looks nice but are committed only to each other emotionally. You want to be a one-guy girl, and see this as a possible problem for him.

See? You are NOT toning it down. You are turning it up. He will hate it. Here's the conversation:

YOU: “Honey, we've been nonmanogamous like, forever, which is, like, totally cool because that word has, like, five syllables in it and stuff, and plus we are totally in possession of a college education. So, like, I want to begin a monogamous relationship with you now, since we have completed college and are becoming, like, serious.”

HIM: “As if. Fuck that. Bye!”

You are not concerned about the guilt thing. You are not worried about the way he will react. You now realize that you want him to be your one-girl guy and he never, ever will, and that means you have to go find another guy to treat you like a girl Friday so he can fuck whoever he wants while you and he profess undying love and emotional strength through intellectual superiority. You get to feel very metropolitan meanwhile by saying you too have this nonmanogamous thing, which makes you publicly cool enough to overcome whatever emo shit you can't cut deep enough to break.

Note: I know that you want to believe there is a separation of emotions and sex, but the sad truth for you is this: normal people do not experience this separation. You are either a.) faking all this shit or b.) not normal.

I also want to ask “where the hell were you when I was in college?” but it probably doesn't matter – I have to assume you are completely not hot because if you were he'd never catch up with you in the first place. Sorry. Just sayin'.

So here's what you do: Just break up with him and go find a nerdy guy that doesn't mind you too much. Buy him a lot of beer, tolerate his porn, use a lot of big words you got from your freshman sociology class, swallow it every night to get him addicted to the sex, and then lead him around by the balls forever. Easy-peasy. You're all set.

***

There we have it. Another week goes by and I got my jollies out by slapping away at the flies that are Prudie Letter Writers. The weekend beckons, the symphony is tomorrow night (bunch of Russian composers, my favorite) and maybe the kids will sleep in Sunday so I can get some on Valentines day. Hit or miss around here.

Cheers all, until next time.

STC =^oo^=